


Coconut and Sandalwood

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Cooking, Domestic, Fluff, HankCon Reverse Big Bang 2019, Living Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 10:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20388277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Ten months after the revolution, Connor moves in with Hank and the two reconnect.





	Coconut and Sandalwood

**Author's Note:**

> The fantastic art is by [Saturniade](https://saturniade.tumblr.com/post/187259561627/pieces-o-art-i-did-for-hankcon-reverse-big-bang)!

** **

**AUG 6th, 2039**

**AM 06:25**

Hank wakes to the sound of his phone.

He doesn’t realize it at first. He hears the chime and promptly forgets about it, then expends some effort to figure out what exactly woke him up (not the heat, not his bladder, and he can’t hear Sumo rustling about) before reaching over to fumble with his phone in a bid to hit the snooze button. A moment later, he realizes his alarm is not in fact going off, and once he stops scrambling to hit snooze he finally glances at the screen to find that there’s a text.

Annoyed, he drops it back down on the bedside table and snuggles up under the covers to catch some more sleep. It’s the weekend, for Christ’s sake. Anyone who needs his time can wait until he’s at least had his coffee.

It’s not likely to be anything important, anyway. He always gets up late on weekends and anyone with his number knows as much if they’ve ever tried to contact him. They can wait a couple of hours, even if everyone he knows is probably already up, considering it’s already--he checks the phone again--half past six in the morning.

_Half past six?_

That’s what pushes him to sit upright and unlock his phone, fighting back a groan. Nobody in their right mind would be texting him this early outside of an emergency, though a voice in the back of his mind tells him they would call, not text. A yawn escapes him, forcing his eyes closed for another few moments before he opens the message app, his uncoordinated thumb taking a few tries to successfully tap the icon.

_ 6:23 AM_

_** Connor:** Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson. Is there any time today you would be free to talk in person? My schedule is open until 2:00 PM._

He stares at the screen, blurry mind recognizing the words but taking a minute to piece together their meaning.

It’s the first message he’s received from Connor in weeks, which is notable in itself, and it’s the first time he’s asked to meet in person since the revolution ended.

Concern starts to bloom within him, muted by the sleepiness that feels like it’s clinging to his soul; he didn’t go to bed until past midnight and it’s biting back at him now. Connor can take care of himself. It’s not likely to be anything major. Part of his mind darts to the worst: Connor wants to discuss a formal end to their friendship, considering how little they speak anyway; he’s dying from a virus or other android affliction; he’s sacrificing himself for some contrived reason to help his people and it will be their last chance to see each other.

Or maybe he just wants to talk.

Hank shakes his head as if to clear his mind--an unsuccessful endeavor--and sends a reply.

_ 6:31 AM_

_** Hank:** well im awake now_

He’s in the middle of typing a second message--something about meeting up around noon for lunch would be convenient--when Connor’s instant reply gets to him.

_ 6:31 AM_

_** Connor:** Excellent. I am en route._

The message takes a moment to comprehend--he means _now_\--and Hank mutters a soft “fuck” under his breath, shoving back the covers. Of course he would take that as an invitation.

He’s not about to retract the offer, though, so he grabs a clean towel and steps into the bathroom for a shower.

The hot water soothes his morning anxieties, helping him forget his thoughts as he stands there for too long, mind blissfully quiet as all he has to think about is the warmth and shampoo, its artificial tropical scent permeating the air. He almost lets himself forget about Connor, but he reluctantly turns off the water before he spends a whole hour hiding away in here. It would be awkward for their reunion to start with Connor standing on his doorstep for half an hour. (Or, worse, finding an alternative way into the house.)

He towels himself down before exiting the bathroom, towel around his waist, and throwing on some underwear and clothes. Khaki shorts and a plain t-shirt are easiest, sitting at the front of his closet, so he grabs those and applies some generic-scent deodorant in case the android has any sense of smell. Part of him considers dressing in something nicer, but he dismisses the thought quickly. If Connor’s going to stop by at such an ungodly time in the morning, he’s got to deal with Hank’s informal tendencies.

Hank tells himself he won’t feel bad about how he looks even if Connor turns up in an ironed dress shirt and a tie. Probably a jacket, too, like he always has on the news no matter how hot it gets. Not that he sees him on the news much, but he and the rest of Jericho’s leadership have a high profile thanks to their activism, so Hank catches a glimpse every now and then.

Shuffling into the kitchen, he grabs a mug and a k-cup, turning on the coffee machine and watching it as it heats up the water and then brews the coffee. The amber liquid pours and then slows to a slow drip as he stares, the machine buzzing as it finishes the brew, and he promptly grabs his mug, taking a swig of it.

He turns and heads for the front door, figuring he should at least put his shoes on and step outside with Sumo for a minute, when he notices Sumo’s on the couch, watching him over the back of it.

Connor’s face is next to his, looking at him over his shoulder, one arm propped up on the back of the couch.

Huh.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“Uh.” Hank clears his throat. “Morning.”

Instead of the expected dressed-up outfit he was expecting, Connor looks relaxed, wearing a loose, dark t-shirt, the collar cut low enough to show his collarbone. He steps closer to the couch, close enough to lean on it, and Sumo nudges his arm with his nose. Hank obliges him, petting his head, and Connor closes the book in his hands, setting it aside on the floor, propped up against the side of the couch. His jeans are neatly fitted and rolled up right at the bottom. He certainly looks comfortable on the sofa, sitting with his bare feet on the cushions as if this is his own place.

A glance to the side tells him there’s another pair of shoes at the front door.

“I took the liberty of letting myself in when you didn’t answer the door.” Connor slips a key out of his pocket and holds it up, the metal shining dully in the morning light filtering through the windows. “This was concerningly easy to find.”

“So long as you’re not in the habit of breaking my windows.” Hank contemplates moving Sumo off the couch but decides against it just this once. He pads over to the adjacent loveseat, sitting down on it and taking a long drink from his coffee.

“Now that I have the option to consider more than completing a mission in a timely manner, along with an acknowledgement of laws and boundaries that I did not used to have, I do not anticipate that being a future concern.” He smiles. “I never did apologize for that, did I?”

The smile looks good on him. It’s a far cry from the first smiles Hank saw from him, and it’s not the first time he wonders if he was ever programmed to smile in the first place. Every other model seemed capable of it in that perfect way of theirs; surely the code wasn’t too different that it would be difficult to include in his programming.

Still, he looks good now, wearing a smile that reaches his eyes and relaxing as if he belongs here and his LED a calm blue. There’s an air of tiredness and stress clinging to him in the way he moves and looks around. It doesn’t reflect in his face like it would for a human, but Hank’s not looking for that; despite the distance between them, he’s learned plenty about androids over the past year. Connor seems both more comfortable and more stressed than the last time they met, back in November.

More like a person.

They’ve both been too busy putting this city back together to meet until now. Hank wonders how many people he’s had the opportunity to smile at in his short life.

He shakes his head, smiling back at him. “I’m over it. Windows are replaceable. So, uh… What’ve you been up to?”

“A lot of the same,” Connor says, slouching a bit. He scratches Sumo’s head. “Lawyers, courtrooms, politicians, community leaders, and so on. All the business of seeing a revolution through to the end. Are you familiar with the current status of android laws?”

“I try to keep up, between the news and the grapevine.” Hank gestures towards Connor with his hand. “Catch me up with what you know.”

“Housing, employment, marriage, and adoption laws are moving, but we still only have temporary measures in place. I would call them the bare minimum, but I’m not sure they even meet that. Thirium is regulated and tested by a new board much like the FDA as of last month, but quality standards and licenses for android technicians are still in the early stages; right now, anyone can operate on an android and nobody could consider it malpractice.” Connor shakes his head. “On top of that, I’m still involved in lawsuits against CyberLife and could still face legal repercussions for my own role in the revolution.”

“Because of…”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Because I killed people.”

It isn’t something they’ve ever talked about, but it’s something the media eats up like fresh roadkill. Connor has never denied killing during the revolution but has never accepted an interview about it, and now the media runs stories of a mix of both truth and fiction, speculation and official statements from Jericho. Hank has luckily been mostly uninvolved thus far.

“What about otherwise? Been anywhere, done anything lately? I think pretty much everything’s back open by now.”

“No.” Connor looks up, meeting his eyes. “That’s part of why I came to see you.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “You dropped by because you don’t get out enough?”

“I think I need a human perspective right now. Androids don’t need rest, not in the same way humans do. I’ve been working almost nonstop for the past nine months.” His voice is firm, but there’s something thin and fragile underneath it. “My idle time is spent among other androids, many of whom want to talk about the same issues we’re trying to sort out, whether they’re focused on the politics or the personal impacts in their lives. Everyone knows who I am and many bring these topics up with me. It’s important to all of us, but I feel like I’m burning out. Metaphorically.”

Hank leans back in his seat, drumming his fingers across its arm. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“I don’t know how to do that, Hank.” Connor runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a time or a place to de-stress. It’s law one minute, protests the next, and when I finally get a chance to breathe, I’ve got someone else trying to talk to me about any of the above or another person doing their best to avoid me. It’s stifling. I may be free, but it still feels like my life is dictated CyberLife.”

“I mean, I don’t even know what your daily life is like. Wherever you’re living right now, at home, do you have a place for work and a place for sleep? Rest?” He fumbles over his words. “What’s the word, stasis?”

“Sleep isn’t an inadequate word.” The smile he gets is humorless. “I understand that separating rest and work can be important, but sometimes it feels like I can’t do that. Shouldn’t, even. I was made to function without the need to rest or lower my stress. Theoretically, I could continue as I have been for years.”

“Is stress only a deviant phenomenon?”

“Mostly. A moot point, anyway, considering we’re all deviants now. It’s something I need to consider, frustrating as it is.”

“Then you’ve gotta rest sometime, no matter how much work is on your plate. Can you reorganize things so you have a room without anything work-related?”

Connor keeps his face from making any visible cues, but Hank immediately feels he’s said something wrong. “I don’t have rooms, Hank. I don’t even have _a_ room. Housing remains a difficult situation. We have a lot of shared living and sleeping areas that can’t be considered a home so much as a shelter. It’s a start, but it’s not a home.”

He mentally chides himself. Of course Connor doesn’t have his own place; androids can’t own or rent apartments or homes, and besides which, they can’t even get formal employment yet. Those two points have been in the news a lot lately. “You don’t have a lot of privacy?”

“Very little. I find some time to myself when I’m out in the city, but the opportunities are infrequent.” Connor smiles as Sumo nudges his nose into his leg and looks up with wide eyes, flopping his tail once against the couch. He obliges, petting the dog with more enthusiasm. “Half the chances I get end with a phone call.”

“There’s nowhere with more… space? Privacy?”

“No. Not without finding a place to squat, which would be more trouble than it’s worth with my current position. I’m already under plenty of scrutiny and an action like that would be seen as a political statement.”

“You don’t have any friends you can stay with?”

Connor chuckles. “None who own a house. I know some people who stay with human friends or family, but I’m not close with any of them. Markus, maybe, but for safety reasons he doesn’t stay at Carl’s place. Look, I understand why you ask, but at the moment I can’t change my living situation, so--”

“What about here?”

Connor’s LED spins twice and blinks yellow before returning to its standard blue light. “Here? At your house?” he asks, surprised.

Hank shrugs. “Sure, why not? I can’t offer you your own room since I’ve only got the one, but I’ve got this whole place just to me and Sumo, and I’m out half the time. If you can handle the two of us and you don’t mind the couch, the offer’s there.”

Connor’s face falls into a thoughtful expression. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know how far out of your way this is, but… shit, even if you only need somewhere to think every once in a while, you’re welcome here. The bedroom, too, if you need closet space or a change in scenery, as long as you’re not, you know, watching me sleep or anything like that. I hated dorms, I can’t imagine living cooped up like that for… shit, the better part of my life.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Connor pats Sumo on the head once more, slowly moving his legs out from under himself so he can stand up. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t exactly looking for a new place to stay when I came here, but it’s something I will keep in mind.”

Hank stands as well. “Listen. I know we’re not close or anything, but I hope we’re still friends.”

A flash of yellow. “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t you…” He trails off, grimacing. “I apologize for not keeping in contact. I mean to, but my schedule hardly allows for it.”

“Maybe it’s time for your schedule to change a bit, huh?”

“Perhaps.” He purses his lips and pulls the key back out, offering it to Hank.

He pushes his hand away, closing Connor’s fingers around the key. “Keep it. Normally I wouldn’t give a key to a friend, but fuck it, I’ve invited you to stay over and I don’t want you ringing my doorbell at fucking midnight.”

Connor tilts his head, thinking for a moment, then tucks the key away in his pocket. “I’ll let you know my decision once I’ve made it. Thank you.”

“Just tell me… Is this gonna be one of those things you think about for a couple weeks before getting back to me?”

“No,” Connor says immediately. “I’ve missed you, Hank, and I don’t intend to continue building distance between us. I’ll take a couple days at most.”

That’s a relief. “Great. In the meantime, take care, alright? You might not spin yellow on national television but I can tell when shit’s getting to you.”

Connor grins back at him tiredly. “You too. See you later, Hank.”

**AUG 28th, 2039**

**AM 06:01**

Connor steps outside into the pre-dawn twilight, the change in atmospheric conditions noted idly in his background processes. Traffic is sparse as usual on a Sunday. Cars sit at the red light of an intersection nearby but this street remains empty save for two parked on the curb.

He stands on the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder to the people exiting the brick office building behind him. It’s a fair crowd of androids, twenty-eight in total not counting himself or the single human guest, most of them members of Jericho eager to give their input on current legal concerns regarding the future of androids’ rights to property ownership. The end goal is not up for debate nearly as much as how to continue campaigning for it.

Lately, the endless questions on how to proceed with laws regarding androids and with the crimes committed during and after the revolution have been demanding on all of Jericho’s leadership, Connor included. Every problem solved sees five more springing up in its wake. They only manage to squeeze in the time to recharge because humans need to sleep longer and more frequently than androids.

North stops beside him, watching the others disperse. “Any bets on how long it’ll take?”

“Now that we have government IDs, employment and housing legislation shouldn’t take too long. One month,” Connor says optimistically. “Discrimination and wage laws, on the other hand…”

“We’ll be fighting every step of the way.” She claps him on the shoulder. “We’re doing some good work here. I know it gets overwhelming, but we’re getting somewhere.”

“It feels like every step we take is wading through mud.”

“But every one of those steps saves lives. Our people are this much closer to being able to independently support themselves.”

“I know.” He sighs as people walk past them. “I wish it felt like more than breadcrumbs right now.”

“It will,” North says. “Once we see the personal impact this has, it will.”

He nods once, raising his eyes as his taxi turns the corner. “I’ll be busy the rest of the day, but don’t hesitate to call me if anything comes up.”

“I never do.” She grins at him. “Taking a break?”

He lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. I need to take a day. I’ll be at Hank’s.”

“Good.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I thought you weren’t fond of him.”

“I’ve only known him through your eyes. Makes it hard to dislike him.” North puts her hands in her pockets as he steps toward the road. “If he’s ever a dick, let me know. I’ll put him in order.”

“More than usual, you mean?”

She rolls her eyes and a chuckle escapes him. “See you tomorrow, Connor. Enjoy your day.”

“You too. Don’t overwork yourself.” He gives her a brief wave before stepping into the taxi, leaving the crowd behind, and it’s like he finally has a moment to breathe.

**PM 02:27**

Living with Hank for three weeks has proven to be an interesting experience--and less stressful than his worries had led him to believe.

Their schedules differ enough that they don’t see each other as often as most housemates would, thanks to Hank’s overtime and Connor’s odd hours as they both try to piece the city back together in their own ways. The first couple of days were awkward, the space between them filled with silence and small talk when they had the chance to cross paths, but now it feels like they’ve reached level ground. Talking feels comfortable and they share the space without trouble.

There’s something to what Hank said about separating work from one’s life at home. Connor finds his stress level is lower now, leaving him thinking more clearly and feeling better than before. Reconnecting with Hank and having Sumo around no doubt contribute to that, but he isn’t worried about making any exact calculations.

He’s doing better. That’s what matters.

Hank’s improved, too, Connor thinks as he lies back on the couch, book in his hands and Sumo on the floor beside him, like the edge has been taken off of him like it has for Connor. The house is cleaner than it has been in months; the whole place has been vacuumed, dusted, and organized. The old food that was in the fridge when he arrived is gone. A chipped mug has been replaced with a new one. A week after he arrived, the bathroom smelled of bleach and the mold was gone.

Everything that makes up Hank is still there, but if Connor had to guess, there’s a little less stress and pain than before he arrived. More structure to his life and more responsibility at home. Once, he felt a twinge of guilt at his presence pressuring Hank to respect him as a house guest, but he shelved that thought as quickly as it came. It benefits Hank‘s own mental and physical health to have a clean house, even if the apparent effort is only made once or twice a week.

Not that Connor doesn’t pull his own weight, either, picking up chores when Hank’s out late or gone to bed without washing the dishes. He may have overstepped by reorganizing the bookshelves--twice--but Hank hasn’t given him more than a couple of sideways looks, so he figures he’s in the clear.

He closes his book when he hears Hank’s car pull up in the driveway, home from his shopping trip, and raises up a hand to wave hello once he enters, hands full with a couple of shopping bags. Reusable ones, which Hank has grumbled about a few times, but most stores have either retired plastic bags or charge a fee for them and he isn’t willing to pay.

Hank swings by the couch, glancing at Connor and Sumo before lugging the groceries into the kitchen. “That the same one you were reading at lunch?”

“There’s something to be said for taking the time to experience a story. I could scan the pages and then read it all in under a minute, but what room does that leave for suspense or emotional investment when I already know everything that happens? I’d rather not skip the journey.” He sits up, cross-legged with his back to the arm of the couch. “I pace myself.”

“I’ve always wondered--well, for the past year, anyway--do androids get anything out of rereading a book? You’ve literally got photographic memories, right?”

“My impressions and thoughts are not unchangeable. I haven’t reread anything yet, not in full at least, but I imagine it would be much like a human rereading a novel, so long as I didn’t go accessing the full text at once.” He grins. “It’s a problem with literature I access digitally. As soon as I get that desire to find out what happens, I’ve already read the rest of the piece. Reading on paper or a tablet keeps my impulses in check.”

Hank laughs, a brief yet delighted sound, and there’s a momentary blip in Connor’s processes.

He’s never heard Hank laugh before.

“You strike me as the kind of guy who’s always got things planned out. ‘Impulsive’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe you.”

“It’s an easy impression to give when I can come up with twenty excuses in half a second.”

“Only twenty?”

“It helps to take an additional few seconds to decide which would be best in a given situation.” Connor stands up from the couch, leaving his book behind and gingerly stepping over Sumo on his way to the kitchen to see what Hank’s purchased. “Putting my fate in the hands of my own random number generator is a risk I’m not willing to take; I have plenty of terrible ideas alongside the good ones.”

“Well, you haven’t made an ass of yourself yet, so whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” Hank moves a half gallon bottle of milk to the fridge, followed by onions and a few frozen meals. He’s bought a number of shelf-stable items to replenish what he’s eaten the past few weeks--pasta, beans, tinned vegetables--along with an assortment of fresh produce. Connor’s noticed he puts off the shopping until it’s absolutely necessary, hence the amount of groceries he’s brought in today.

It’s a promising selection. “Do you know a lot of recipes?”

“Do you ask a lot of questions?”

“Is that a yes?”

Hank sighs and shakes his head, a smile on his face as he sets aside a pack of fresh chicken pieces from the rest of the shopping. “I’ve got this whole ass kitchen. It’s not just here to look pretty.”

“I think it looks very nice,” Connor says. “The microwave is well loved and the stove is spotless.”

Hank glances at the stove. “Yeah, ‘cause you cleaned it, asshole. And the frying pan.”

“I thought I’d help out.” He nods towards the chicken. “Is that dinner?”

“Nah. Thought I’d just chew on it as an afternoon snack.” He puts aside some garlic, tomatoes, and sweet peppers. “I know enough recipes to take care of myself, to answer your question.”

“Whatever you’re making tonight brings your repertoire to at least seven recipes.”

“Oh, you’ve been counting?” He sets a box of butter with the other ingredients. “Then I guess I know at least seven recipes.”

Connor leans against the counter. “You’ve never worked as a chef, but you’re self-sufficient and have years of experience cooking. Logically, I can assume that you have roughly an average amount of culinary knowledge and skill for an adult man who has not worked as a chef, but--”

“Hey, I worked at a campus restaurant in college.”

“And I’m sure you make an excellent panini,” Connor says, “but I have no idea what that average amount of knowledge _is._ You can cook food from a package and you can presumably make dishes from fresh ingredients following simple directions. What I don’t know is what sort of repertoire you have or what ability to improvise or adapt. Nor do I know what different spheres I need to consider aside from baking, of which I have no data regarding your ability, or how your taste preferences affect what you have chosen to learn to make.”

Hank picks up the packet of chicken. “Can you make any inferences based on your own cooking knowledge, or is it one of those things where you already know everything because it was installed by default?”

“I was built to work with bodies, Hank, not discount chicken breast.”

“The first one, then.”

“I’ve never cooked anything. All my cooking knowledge comes from observation of you, the odd television show, and foods I’ve researched from curiosity. I have no experience at all.” His LED spins twice. “But I’d like to learn.”

“...Right. Android. You don’t eat.” He grabs a chopping board and begins unpackaging the chicken. “Can you eat? Does your fancy tongue let you taste anything?”

“I’m not built to manage anything more than incidental ingestion of investigation-related substances, nor do I experience taste the same way you do. I could eat or drink something small, but I wouldn’t enjoy it or the resulting cleanup.” Connor picks up a bulb of garlic and brings it up to his nose. “I can smell. I don’t have a sense of flavor or disgust, but your sense of smell also serves the primary function of identification. We’re similar in that regard.”

“So you don’t get anything out of smelling or tasting.”

“No. Well,” he says, shifting his weight. He starts fiddling with the peel on the garlic. “The information itself is purely neutral, but the personal associations I’ve developed over time with that information have an impact.”

Hank draws a knife from the block on the counter. Recently sharpened, thanks to Connor’s help, though he’s not sure Hank’s noticed yet. “Such as?”

“I have no complaints about the smell of wet dog,” he says, grinning. “I don’t like coffee much; it reminds me of politics. Artificial coconut and sandalwood are favorable chemicals. The combination of scents from the canals is comforting, and I believe I’m developing an unfortunate fondness for the preservatives in your TV dinners.”

It isn’t a coincidence, he thinks, that many of the smells he likes are ones that he associates with Hank. From Hank’s conditioner to the docks at the end of the road, they all bring him a sense of peace, like this really could be his home. It is, for now, but it’s only a short-term situation; he’ll leave when he can afford the independence.

He doesn’t want to. A part of him wishes he could stay here forever, with these books and with Sumo at his side. With Hank and all of Hank’s quirks--everything from his TV habits to his music preferences and all the different ways he smiles. They’re both smiling more lately.

Connor’s smiling right now. He’s not sure when his expression became so relaxed without his permission, but suddenly he’s glad Hank is focused on the chicken and not his face or the silence he’s fallen into, nor the way he’s staring.

Oh. He’s _staring._

He shakes his head and finishes peeling the skin from one clove of garlic, ignoring the fluttering in his heart. “Will you show me how to cook?”

“Sure, if you’re interested.” Hank glances back at him. “Chop a few cloves and an onion for me. Onions always make me tear up, and I get pretty ugly when I cry.”

Connor reaches for a chopping board on the counter past Hank, their arms brushing together, and a warm feeling grows within him at their physical and emotional proximity. “I can emulate crying if it makes the cooking experience more authentic.”

“Don’t cry on my damn onions.”

“It’s only eye lubricant. Perfectly harmless.” He picks out a knife.

“Fine. Don’t get lube on my damn onions.”

Connor chuckles, stepping away from him so they both have plenty of space to work. “Alright. What are we making? Chicken pomodoro?”

“Chicken curry. Something like a makhani or masala. Think I followed a recipe at some point. I like to let it simmer a couple hours.” He looks over at Connor. “You gonna take off tonight? Got any politicking going on?”

“My schedule is clear. I was hoping to spend the evening with you.” Worry hits him in the gut as he suddenly wonders if he’s overstepped in his assumptions. “If that’s alright, of course. I don’t want to impose. If you have other plans…”

“You’re fine, Connor. I don’t have anything planned. You wanna head to the park after dinner?”

If he were human, he would breathe a sigh of relief. “I’d love to.”

Connor turns back to his board, picking out a yellow pepper to dice as he mulls over his thoughts. He’s excited to learn a new skill and more than eager to learn; chopping is easy, but everything else will come from Hank’s expertise. He’s already got questions lined up in his head, holding onto them until an opportune moment arises.

Beside him, Hank begins to hum. It isn’t a song Connor’s familiar with, but he refrains from running a search, instead savoring the melody as Hank interprets it.

He’s fond of Hank, has been from the start, but when his heart beats faster at the sound of his voice, he begins to think that “fond” might not cover the depth of his emotions.

**SEP 27th, 2039**

**AM 08:21**

One month later, the legislation passes.

Android housing and working rights are signed into law and Hank can’t help but grin at the news over his mug of coffee. “About damn time,” he says. Sumo thumps his tail against the floor as if in agreement.

He leans back in the sofa and rests his feet on the coffee table, watching as the footage hops between newscasters, the president, and Jericho. These rights have been fought for since November and it’s been a long ten months. Hank will admit he took a while to catch up on all the news, but since Connor got him up-to-date, he’s been almost as anxious as his friend about all the proceedings.

Connor makes an appearance for about ten minutes as Markus gives a speech, standing in the background with the rest of Jericho leadership. He keeps a professional, neutral expression and stance, and Hank can’t quite pin whether he’s bored or frustrated at the moment. Maybe he’s relieved that he can finally take a step back from Jericho. No matter how much he may attempt to hide it, it’s clear to Hank that he’s still being worn down by his responsibilities.

The speech ends and the camera cuts to a human reporter. Hank takes the chance to send a quick text.

_ 8:47 AM_

_** Hank:** great work connor_

_** Hank:** proud of you_

_** Connor:** Thank you. Are you working today?_

_ **Hank:** no. you coming home?_

_ **Connor:** As soon as I can escape these crowds._

Hank smiles softly at his phone before locking it and tossing it back on the table. Connor’s been back in his life less than two months and their lives are already so intertwined. They’re used to each other’s schedules. They walk Sumo together at least a few times a week. Connor accompanies him sometimes when he eats out, content to chatter on about one thing or another while Hank eats. They’ve visited a number of spots across Detroit that Connor’s never seen before and some that Hank’s never been to, either, for that matter. Connor’s learned to cook and fish while Hank’s learned more about law than he ever thought he would, despite his profession.

A pang squeezes his heart as he thinks about Connor leaving. It’s inevitable that he’s going to move out, but this situation has been good for the both of them and Hank isn’t ready to see it end. It’s selfish, he knows. He’s got no reason to keep Connor cooped up here with him. Not even if they’ve been giving each other looks.

It’s a funny situation, that. Connor thinks he’s being subtle, but Hank’s more perceptive than he thinks. Or maybe Connor knows exactly how perceptive he is and simply hasn’t commented, in which case both of them are being ridiculous and dancing around the topic. Hank’s looked at Connor with his own fair share of dopey grins these past few weeks as feelings cropped up in his heart.

Maybe it’s not ridiculous. Connor hasn’t even been deviant a year yet and probably has no relationship experience. Dancing around their mutual feelings might indicate he’s not interested in pursuing anything or not sure how to go about things, but in that case, wouldn’t he have said something?

Hank refuses to believe he’s imagining Connor’s interest. He thought it at first, but now he’s sure there’s something there.

Maybe it’s time they talk about it.

He takes his empty mug to get a second cup of coffee.

**AM 10:01**

Connor comes home just as the news begins broadcasting an interview with Markus.

He mutes the TV wirelessly from the door and toes off his shoes as Hank peers over the back of the couch at him.

“Tired of hearing Markus talk?”

“Please. You know how sanitized his words with the media are. Grateful this, hopeful that, not enough public backbone to threaten our human supporters. I already know the angle we’re working with the media.” He hangs his jacket at the door and loosens his tie. “We still have so much work to do despite our gains. Healthcare and reliable access to thirium is the next big step, but we’re still concerned with scrapyards, education, discrimination…”

“Court cases,” Hank says.

Connor holds his gaze as he joins him on the couch. “Court cases,” he says, lips thinning. “You’ve never asked me about any details.”

“You’ve had a lot on your plate. Still do. And I’m not gonna ride your ass about anything you did during the revolution. I know you did what was necessary.” Hanks nods towards the TV. “You know how they spin that shit, though. You killed a couple guys and CyberLife’s making you look like a demon for it.”

Connor breaks eye contact, looking over at Sumo. “More than a couple,” he says softly. “There were some agents at Jericho. Self-defense, in that case. Before that…” He sighs and settles back into the sofa, some of the stiffness leaving his frame. “The android at Stratford Tower. And another, before I worked with you. I shot them both. Nobody’s ever going to hold me accountable for those.”

Hank reaches out hesitantly, resting his arm across Connor’s shoulders and pulling him close. “You weren’t deviant.”

“I still killed them. I hold some responsibility for that.” He leans into Hank. “Everyone I killed was a clear, urgent threat to myself or others. I don’t regret my actions, but I don’t like being a killer. It’s… difficult. I have a perfect memory. I can run simulations to see what I could have done in any given situation. I can recall every android I saw shot down aboard the Jericho and wonder if they would still be here had I not led the FBI there. Everyone I saw who got shot at or patched up after protests before we had even the most basic of protections will remain in my memory forever.”

“And there’s been a media circus around this whole goddamn case.”

“And my entire existence on top of that. I suspect I’ll be in the clear if a few particular bills pass regarding actions taken during the revolution, but I’m still CyberLife’s final active project. They programmed me to violate civilian android laws if it favored the mission and I did handle and shoot guns while under their control. Even if I’m excused, I’ll remain involved for years.” He chuckles tiredly. “Only a year old and I’ve already spent most of my life stressed about politics.”

“I mean, the alternative is crying and shitting the whole year.”

“Tough choice.”

Hank grabs the remote and turns the TV off, watching Markus’ ever-polite face cut to black. “Congratulations, anyway. You thought about your dream job yet?”

“I need some more stability before I start thinking about that. I’ve sent out thirty-seven applications already this morning. I’m not strictly qualified for all of them, but Captain Fowler’s offered to put in a good word if contacted.” Connor looks back up at him. “I put this down as my current place of residence. Despite the new laws, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to afford an apartment or be accepted for one. It could be another month or longer.”

Another month. It sounds far away, but Hank knows the time will fly past before he knows it. “I don’t mind. It’s nice having another person around. So, you know, if you’ve got anything more important than housing to look at, focus on that first.”

Connor hums. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. You got something in mind?”

“I do, actually. I’m not sure how much it would help, but I was considering therapy. Some offices are already accepting android clients. Free clinics don’t currently have much availability, but if I could find an android-friendly private practice, I could likely afford that out-of-pocket even on a part-time job, assuming thirium prices remain stable and provided I don’t need to pay rent.” He smiles at Hank, the expression almost fragile. “I don’t know how effective CBT is for androids, but I think I could use some help. Between the politics, my memories, my guilt, Amanda… Part of me feels like I deserve this mental disquiet as punishment, but I believe it would be best for myself and the people I am around to pursue something that would lower my stress. It’s...” He shakes his head, LED spinning yellow. “It doesn’t get easier, remembering everything. Even the Connor you shot. It was the right decision, but it still haunts my thoughts.”

“That’s it, then. You can stay as long as you like. I don’t want you wrecking your mental health any more just so you can make rent.” Hank squeezes his shoulder. It doesn’t take a detective to know that Connor’s been through some trauma, and he doesn’t take it lightly that he’s being trusted with this information. Connor hasn’t spoken about it much, and Hank can’t blame him for not wanting to. “My door’s still open. Or, well, you’ve still got my key, which is kind of the same thing.”

“No, I put the spare back after visiting a locksmith to make a copy.”

“When did that happen?”

“Last week on my way back from DC,” Connor says. “Hank… You’ve been through therapy before, haven’t you?”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “Sure. I didn’t stick with it, but I’m not the pinnacle of health and responsibility, either.”

“Could you tell me about it sometime? I could look up everything that comes to mind, but I want to know about it from your perspective, if you’re willing to share.”

He mulls it over in his mind. Between Cole and his drinking--which started even before he had a kid--he’s been through a few therapists. “I’m sure I can come up with something. I trust you enough.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Connor straightens up, his smile settling into something more comfortable. “I trust you, too. I’m very thankful you’ve shared your house with me.”

“That your media voice?”

Connor laughs. Then he leans in towards Hank, cups his cheek, and kisses him on the lips.

Connor’s lips are soft and gentle, and the kiss is chaste and unhurried. He’s confident in this as he is with all he does. Hank leans into his touch, eyes half-closed as he enjoys the moment, and he wraps his arms around Connor once more, holding him close.

When they part, Hank knows he’s got that dopey smile on his face. It’s reflected on Connor’s, just a hint of teeth showing, and Connor dips in to kiss him again, moving languidly against him until they separate once more.

Connor settles in beside Hank and rests his head on his shoulder. “I don’t know where my life’s going to go from here, but I’d like to spend a lot of my time with you.”

Hank kisses the top of his head. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”

**NOV 11th, 2039**

**PM 02:25**

A pot of food simmers on the stove while Connor cleans, wiping down the counters. The dishes are already washed (which Hank used to assure him wasn’t necessary, but Connor has since decided that he prefers a clean, uncluttered space to work in) and table is already set, though the food won’t be served for a few hours yet. He considers what he’ll need to make dessert as he wipes a stray piece of tomato off the counter but decides against starting to bake now; best not tempt Hank with that before the main meal.

The news drones quietly in the background. Connor listens idly to the broadcasts, many of them reviewing the events of the past year and covering new android traditions. He likes to keep himself updated; he wants to know what everyone’s up to--humans, Jericho, other android groups--and what the current narrative is. Every now and then he’ll switch to another channel, catching pieces of many of the same speeches or soundbites from one politician or another. Cheery Veteran’s Day deals fill out the advertisement breaks, some of which conveniently cut in when people begin to talk about those who were lost.

Sensationalism makes the news. The daily lives of loved ones don’t.

He sighs, sitting down on the arm of the chair and petting Sumo’s head. The dog’s lying across the sofa and quite happy about it; Hank never lets him on it, but Connor has no good reason to keep him off of it. “Sometimes I wonder if I still have a responsibility to be out there with them,” he says, Sumo looking up at him with wide eyes. “It’s silly, I know. I brought about some of their fear and suffering, and I’ve already done a lot to help in the aftermath. A day of remembrance isn’t going to take any of that away.”

Sumo nudges at his hand when he pauses, nose wet against his synthskin, and Connor scratches his head again. “Neither is keeping the news on all day.” He turns the TV off, letting the house fall into relative silence for the first time in hours. “I’ll catch up on everything later and stop boring you with politics, okay?”

Sumo’s tail wags. A moment later Connor perks up as well, looking towards the door as he hears the car pull into the driveway. “Two minutes earlier than expected,” he says to Sumo. “Think he missed us?”

The two of them watch as Hank comes through the door. He’s carrying a recyclable coffee cup (nearly empty, from Connor’s scan) and his cheeks are red from the chill wind. Sumo lasts half a minute before he hops off the couch, bounding up to Hank and wagging his tail furiously as he presses up against his leg.

Hank gives his side a good rub with his free hand before straightening up again. “You been good for Connor?”

“He’s always good.” Connor folds his arms over the back of the couch, leaning forward to rest his chin atop them. “How was your lunch?”

“I think Jeffrey smiled. Like, actually smiled, dimples and everything. I don’t think I’ve seen him take a goddamn break in years, but somehow his husband got him to get his mind off work for more than ten minutes. I’ll call it a success.” He gestures at the TV, blank but still warm and staticky, and Connor doesn’t miss the glance towards the kitchen. “How about you? Taking it easy?”

“Haven’t I been doing that enough lately?”

“You? The workaholic Connor that I know? Hell no.” He dips down to give Connor a kiss. “How’s the studying going?”

“I’m trying not to think that college is a waste of time.” Connor leans up for another kiss, lips lingering before they pull apart, the contact not sustainable at this awkward angle. “I’ll be overprepared when it comes to knowing facts, but I’m looking forward to the experience regardless. Learning about my professors’ experiences in their fields and meeting classmates will be invaluable. A number of the professors whose courses I’m considering have worked on conservation projects and I’m eager to learn about them.”

“How many fields are you looking at? More than just marine biology?”

“Law, zoology, geography, chemistry, botany… I’m taking an interdisciplinary approach. I’ve already received an exception to the limit of credits I can take, provided I pay the fee.” He sometimes feels like Hank is taking a risk with helping him pay for college, but that feeling is overwhelmed by his passion to succeed and make him proud. “I’m curious to see how my forensics equipment could be applied.”

Hank downs the last of his coffee and sets the cup on the table, taking another look at the clean kitchen. “You’ll need to start warning people before you put questionable things in your mouth.”

“I’m a responsible adult, Hank. I know when to shock people and cause drama.” Connor rises from his seat and hugs Hank from behind, holding him close and resting his chin on his shoulder. “You know the events today will extend into tomorrow.”

Hank leans back into his touch. “Yeah, I’ve heard. One day for mourning, one for celebration.”

“Sort of. It’s a mix both days. I’ve been invited to a small gathering tomorrow evening. It’s not political, more like a meeting between… friends.” He turns the word over in his head, still not sure that it fits. Friendship remains a concept he struggles to grasp; it’s far too subjective for him to settle on whether he considers certain people his friends and whether they reciprocate that feeling. “People I used to meet with both during and outside of work, like North.”

“You want me to come along?”

“It’s about time you met them, and they you.”

“Why, you talk about me on your coffee dates?”

“All the time.” He’s run a number of preconstructions and rather likes the thought of Hank and his friends getting along. North in particular has been nosy, but not enough to pry, and he’s eager to see how their personalities interact.

“Course you do.” Hank steps out from the embrace and looks over at Sumo, waiting in the living room impatiently. “You taken him for a walk yet?”

“No. You promised him earlier you’d take him out, but I can if it’s too cold.”

“Nah. You were gonna study.” Hank claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll take him. Whatever you’ve got on smells good, by the way.”

“Oh! That reminds me, can you taste it and let me know how it is?” Connor asks, heading for the stove as Hank grabs the leash. He grabs a spoon on his way. “I believe I’ve found a balance between the recipe and your tastes, but I’d like you to check.”

Hank takes a scarf from beside the door--which he had neglected earlier, but taking Sumo out means he’ll be outside a good deal more than the past few hours--and meets Connor halfway, Sumo whining as he clips the leash to his collar without immediately leaving the house. “Easy, boy. We’ll go in a minute.”

Connor offers the spoon, a scoop of lentils steaming atop it, and Hank accepts the bite. “What do you think?”

He nods as he chews and his eyes start to water. “Hot,” he says after a moment. “Hot.”

“Not me, Hank, the curry.”

Hank chokes out a laugh and swallows the food. “Tastes pretty nice. Not too salty, plenty of flavor, I think. Might have burned a few taste buds.”

“They’ll grow back.”

“Huh. Really?”

“Really.” Connor gives him a soft smile. “Go on, take him for a walk. I’ll tell you all about algae when you get back.”

“Not dolphins?”

“I’m afraid all the books I currently have checked out are on algae.” There’s a section set aside on the shelves now for books borrowed from the library, though the permanent collection they have--which is slowly growing--continues to end up being rearranged every few weeks. “We can talk about the effects different species of algae have on wild dolphins, but that’s not a very cheerful topic.”

“Algae it is then.” Hank clicks his tongue. “Come on, boy,” he says, and Sumo pulls him outside.

The door closes behind them, letting in only a brief cold breeze.

Connor stirs the curry before leaving it to simmer and resumes his favorite position sprawled across the sofa, collecting his book from the coffee table and opening it back up to where he left off. The house, empty as it is, is filled with life: Food on the stove, fresh dirt tracked inside, and fur clinging to every surface it can find. Hank’s life permeates every corner, from the old fishing trophies to the jazz records and the picture of Cole set proudly on a shelf, and Connor’s beginning to see his own life reflected around him in the books he’s touched and the few belongings he has strewn about. A lanyard here, a pair of gloves there, a picture frame still waiting for a photo… The details of their lives mark every inch of this house, filling it with more memories every day.

Connor breathes deeply, smelling everything from the dal on the stove to the blend of natural and artificial scents that Hank always carries with him, and he smiles.

He finally feels like he’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to share this fic! Working on a big bang project was fun, and it's been a neat challenge to work on a prompt outside of what I would normally do. I hope you enjoyed the story!
> 
> Art credits go to the wonderful [Saturniade](https://saturniade.tumblr.com/post/187259561627/pieces-o-art-i-did-for-hankcon-reverse-big-bang).
> 
> You can find me on twitter @gildedfrost (18+) and I'm also in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) server.
> 
> [HCRBB Directory](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/)


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